Love
by Zero.Elektronik
Summary: Bastard. You're sick, doing this to me, but the worst part is - I don't even think you know You're doing it. Done for the 100 theme challenge. Slash. RedGoth/TallGoth.


**Warning: MalexMale/Slash/Yaoi/Gayness.**

**Disclaimer: Don't belong to me.**

**Done for the 100 theme challenge.  
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Bastard. You're sick, doing this to me, but the worst part is - I don't even think you know you're doing it. It's everything you do that makes me fall for you - damn, that sounded so fucking cliché, so fucking...conformist. Ugh. But it's true. Sometimes it's just us, standing in the back of some disgusting little alleyway at midnight, drinking coffee, the air silent and full of things I should be saying to you, but I don't. In fact, that's where we were when this all fucking started.

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It was cold. You didn't feel it; you had that big black trench coat of yours on, whilst I focused on stopping myself from shivering. I finished my cup of coffee, and looked around for a bin - there wasn't one in sight, so I dropped it onto the ground, kicking it and not bothering to notice where it went. I was too busy watching you. The light always hit you perfectly, you didn't even have to wear makeup; your skin was so pale. But it wasn't pock-marked like mine, it was flawless - this is starting to sound really fucking gay, isn't it? But it's true. I watched you, watched the smoke leave your lips and form patterns in the air, in this darkness it almost looked like ghosts, or souls escaping from your pale lips. You caught me looking at you, and didn't say anything. You kept silent and grabbed me by the shirt collar - it took me by surprise, I'll give you that, but it didn't surprise me half as much as when you kissed me. Silently, and softly, you kissed me. I moved my hands to your chest and rested comfortably against you as we kissed. And then, silently, you pulled away and continued to smoke. I shrugged it off.

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Except I can't shrug it off. It's been months since then, and it happens again sometimes. But you're not here. I'm alone in the darkness of my own room. Candles were lit, but they faded and burnt out like any hope that I had left for you. I'm here and the only thing I can manage to do is fucking angst over you. Pathetic. It's almost as if you're stepping on my heart every time I see you, you don't even notice. It's so hard not to reach for your hand, it's hard to resist the urge to just grab you, and kiss you so hard that there's blood in your mouth and entwine my fingers in those black curls. Fuck, I'm jealous of the cigarette between your lips, and every one that will be there next. I hate you. I hate everything about you. I hate how you've reduced me into desperately craving your attention like some idiotic little cheerleader pining after the quarter-back. I hate how you'll drag me away from the group to kiss me where they can't see - how fucking _non-conformist._ I hate how the smoke we breathe has made you blind to what you're doing to me. I hate how you refuse to acknowledge this...this thing. I hate how you refuse to love me. I hate how even though I convince myself i hate you, I don't. I love you.

I wish you'd die. But you'd like that, wouldn't you? You look dead when you sleep somtimes, peaceful and cold. God, I sure hope you are dead. At least then I wouldn't have to feelfor you and not know how you felt about me. Hell, I could ask - but I'd rather not sound like some fucking faggot. I notice my reflection in the mirror, dimly lit but I can still see it. My hair's a mess, sticking up in all the wrong places, my roots showing through the red - I haven't dyed it in a while, I never do anything but pace around my room, smoking and thinking about you, wishing you were thinking about me. My eyeliner's all smudged around my eyes, and I look more dead than usual. Of course, you don't know this. When we sit in my room and read poetry, you don't guess that I'm writing about you, and I'm glad you don't. But I don't feel like loving you any more. It's all getting boring, and predictable. I'm fumbling with my phone between my fingers, contemplating on calling you and just confessing - I hope you feel so fucking guilty that it drives you made. But I won't. What am I supposed to say?

It looks like you knew. You're calling me and I don't know whether to answer. I stare at your name on the small, dim light, and I don't know what to do. Eventually, I pick up. Everyone's meeting at Henrietta's house, and that I should pick up some cigarettes on the way round, you say. And then I can't stop myself. I say it, quietly in the hope that you don't hear and hang up - _I love you. _- Faggy, sure, but it's true. And you hear it. Fuck, you heard it. I can tell by the long drag of your cigarette than I can hear. You hate me. That's fine, I'd gladly accept being the thing you hated most - because that'd mean you care enough to hate me more than anything else. It's silent for a few minutes, and I'm tugging at my hair, gnawing at my lip. When you finally sigh and answer. You're answer is so fucking retarded, but I can't help but smile, I should have expected something like that off you - _What I'd love, is for you to be my boyfriend. That'd show those fucking non-conformists that we have our own dark and twisted love, right? _- And I suppress the urge to ask if you've only asked me out to be non-conformist, because hell, the fact you just asked me out is enough for me. My rooms lightened a little now, and I notice that one of the candles had never really gone out; it just had trouble making it through the darkness it loves so much. Man, I'd have to use that metaphor in my poetry sometime.

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**AN: I've never written anything like this before, so reviews/critique would be awesome. I'm not writing from experience here, so i hope i'm conveying unrequited love okay.**


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